


I Open My Mouth (and nothing comes out)

by scooter3scooter



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Anxiety, Blades, Crying, Cutting, Depression, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt Peter Parker, Hyperventilating, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Not A Happy Ending, Overdose, Overdosing, Panic Attack, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker Whump, Peter Parker is a Mess, Pills, Precious Peter Parker, References to Musicals, Sad, Sad Ending, Scratching, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Destruction, Self-Doubt, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Self-Worth Issues, Sobbing, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, Trouble breathing, anxiety attack, cries, cut, depressed, no happiness, no happy ending, puking, throwing up, vent fic, venting, very sad fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:13:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24656641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scooter3scooter/pseuds/scooter3scooter
Summary: The bathroom tile was cool but I’ve never felt so so hot before, it’s like the clothes I’m wearing have been set on fire. I leaned my stupid head back against the wall, but resisted from smacking it back again and again until my brains were oozing out along with the blood. The only reason I resisted was because I knew the sound of the smack smack smacking would be far too loud for 3am.Looking down at my clean arms, I should have worn long sleeves, I did not resist from digging my nails into the flesh and deeply dragging down. Horizontal is self harm, vertical is suicide, I reminded myself. It was something an old friend told me years ago, but I could never forget looking at her horizontal lines marking her wrist and thinking about the matching ones on my thigh, and later my side. Scratching barely counts as self harm though, it hardly bleeds.I dragged my nails and down up and down up and down up and down…
Comments: 6
Kudos: 58





	I Open My Mouth (and nothing comes out)

**Author's Note:**

> Tw Please proceed with caution as this story deals extremely heavily with self harm and suicide. (Including, scratching, cutting, thoughts of hitting head on wall, overdosing) Other tw include throwing up, no happy ending.   
> Please please don’t read if possibly triggering.

The bathroom tile was cool but I’ve never felt so so hot before, it’s like the clothes I’m wearing have been set on fire. I leaned my stupid head back against the wall, but resisted from smacking it back again and again until my brains were oozing out along with the blood.  _ The only reason I resisted was because I knew the sound of the smack smack smacking would be far too loud for 3am.  _

Looking down at my clean arms,  _ I should have worn long sleeves _ , I did not resist from digging my nails into the flesh and deeply dragging down.  _ Horizontal is self harm, vertical is suicide _ , I reminded myself. It was something an old friend told me years ago, but I could never forget looking at her horizontal lines marking her wrist and thinking about the matching ones on my thigh, and later my side.  _ Scratching barely counts as self harm though, it hardly bleeds. _

I dragged my nails  _ and down up and down up and down up and down… _

Only after my skin did that weird thing were it turns an even paler shade of white and puffs up, turning almost hard to the touch, did I rip my skin dirtied nails from my stupid arm.  _ But it’s not enough. It’s never never enough.  _ Next, I took my nails to the back of the hand, where there’s less fat or whatever so the blood will leak out quicker. My hand moved quicker, sporadic scratches digging into my hand with an almost animalistic desperation. 

_ Deeper deeper deeper…  _

Only with both my hand and arm beading up with little spots of blood did I reach into my pocket with my not bleeding hand. Pulling out the balled up tissue, I carefully unwrapped it. The blade was barley the size of half my pinkie,  _ but what else would you expect from a pencil sharpener? _

_ If this really is it, then what’s to stop me from slicing up my arm? It would be one dream come true before I stop waking up.  _

Yet as much as my instincts screamed to just take the little blade to my arm, I still hesitated.  _ Odds are, I’ll fail. Again. And failing is so so much worse. _

To fail at committing really is the worst thing. Because nothing changes, and if it does it’s only for the worse. Last time,  _ the only other time I’ve attempted _ , I didn’t even write a note,  _ part of me just knew I would fail _ . Last time, I only had my little past pencil sharpener blade to slice myself open with,  _ and part of me knew it wouldn’t be enough.  _ Last time, I took the blade vertically and I bled and I bled but I didn’t even pass out,  _ and yet I still cried from the pain.  _ Last time, I wiped off the blood, wiped away the tears, and left the bathroom,  _ like nothing even happened at all.  _

_ And to the rest of the world, nothing did happen, they all went on while I still stay in that time. Every day all I am is that stupid kid hiding in the bathroom with a bleeding body, and no one even knows. It’s better like that.  _

I let out a shaky breath, without the cuts the tears still pressed at my eyes.  _ Might as well release one last time. It’s not like it could hurt. Much. _

I always have a panic attack song, they’re convenient to get me to cry quickly. First was Michael in the Bathroom from Be More Chill, _“wish I offed myself instead wish I was never born, I’m just Michael who’s a loner so he must be a stoner, rides a PT cruiser, god, he’s such a loser, Michael flying solo who you think that you know, Michael in the bathroom by himself, all by himself, all by himself”_ god I still have the lyrics memorized. 

Then it was Good For You from Dear Evan Hansen,  _ “all I need is some time to think, but the boat is about to sink, can’t erase what I wrote in ink, tell me how can I change the story? All the words that I can’t take back, like a train coming off the track, cuz the rails and my bones all crack. I’ve gotta find a way to stop it, stop it! Just let me out!”  _ But it really will never stop, not without death. 

And now it’s Flowers from Hadestown,  _ “is anybody listening, I open my mouth and nothing comes out, nothing, nothing gonna wake me now.”  _ Three different songs and it’s like my progression. Being alone, everything too much, and now I’m gone.  _ “Gone, I’m gone.”  _

I mouth the lyrics to myself as the tears leak out of me, even if I tried to sing it would only come out as whimpers and sobs.  _ How fitting that I can’t get the words out, can’t have a way for anyone to hear me. As if anyone would be here.  _ Because I’m just alone in the bathroom, can’t change anything, and soon nothing's gonna wake me.  _ It’s better like this.  _

I did not bother to cover my mouth as I let each sob wrack my body, everything trembling. All my energy seemed to sap out of me with each tear, and if I let myself I could just pass out right now.  _ But that’s not enough, passing out means waking back up.  _

Eyes blurry from tears, snot running down my nose and into my mouth as I breathed open mouthed,  _ god I’m disgusting _ , I clutched my little blade tighter. I started at the usual spot, for a sense of normalcy. I lifted my shirt, revealing the ugly spot on my side above the hip. Dozens upon dozens,  _ probably hundreds,  _ of scars overlapping to make a concentrated dark spot on my skin. I ran my fingers over quickly, feeling the still healing scabs from last time. I took the blade to the same spot, reopening the scabs and making new soon to be scars. 

_ Again and again and again…  _

The blood didn’t bead up quick enough, I squeezed my eyes shut as another round of tears took over. This time I tried to repeat the words to myself,  _ “I open my mouth and nothing- and and oh god,”  _ I quickly covered my mouth as a sob hit me way too hard.  _ I can’t- I can’t do this…  _

My breaths came quicker, far too quick to be useful. My chest only seemed to tighten more, making getting any oxygen in my lungs next to impossible. Before I knew what was happening all I could do was inhale small gasps but I couldn’t get myself to exhale. All I could do was try to cover my mouth when the nausea hit,  _ I’m not sure how so much came up when I barely ate anything all day. _

_ I need to stop, I need to stop, I need this all to stop. _

With my non-dirtied hand, I dug through the bathroom cabinet. Finally, I found the hidden stash. I grabbed the bottle on top and took out the steak knife,  _ not ideal but it’s still bigger and sharper than my usual blade.  _ Though I had no note,  _ what’s the odds I’ll actually succeed this time?  _

I tried and failed to get a deep breath in, everything about me shaking and quivering like the pathetic little thing I am, I opened the bottle and started with just two little pills. I downed the first two with just a few coughs after from the dry swallowing. Next, I took a handful and shoved them in my mouth, but they wouldn’t go down. I coughed and they came back up.  _ God why can’t anything be easy?  _

I dragged myself over to the tub, turning on the frigid cold water. I washed my hand covered with my puke first, before cupping my hand to fill with water. This time I tried to down the pills with the water. It took a few handfuls of water, but eventually I got down all the pills.  _ But with my metabolism, what if this isn’t enough? _

_ Well that’s why I have a backup plan. _

Even while I shook, tears still on my stupid face, blood drying on my one hand an arm, I took up the steak knife. Though my arm was still bleeding a bit, I still dug the knife into it and dragged it  _ down down down…  _

I could only hope that was deep enough when the blood immediately started  _ dripping _ , not just beading up in little spots like the cuts on my side does. I took that bleeding arm and tried to match it on my other wrist, but even without looking I would know it wasn’t as deep.  _ Maybe, maybe the combined pills and cuts will be enough. Maybe this won’t be another fail.  _

_ Maybe I should have wrote a note. Maybe I should have thought more about if I succeeded, than just about failing, but too late now. It’s not like anybody’s here, it’s not like anybody’s listening. No one’s awake at this time of the night, no one knows a thing. It was the perfect night for this, I’m expected to sleep in on a Saturday. No one will be looking for me, I have time to let my body do it’s thing. _

With each thought, I felt them get slower and slower, as if they took energy with them. 

_ It’s better- it’s good like this… it’s how it’s supposed to be.  _

I slumped down until I was laying flat on the ground, staring up at the ceiling. And every everything felt so  _ heavy  _ like my bones were made of lead. My eyelids shut themselves, it was too hard keeping something so heavy open. 

Even just the thought of staying awake seemed to weigh too much, maybe this time when I sleep it won’t be filled with nightmares. 

_ Maybe this time, I can have a peaceful rest.  _

**Author's Note:**

> I am not trying to promote or romanticize suicide or self harm, I just needed a place to vent and sometimes sometimes paper listens better than people. Typically I try to make all my stories have a happy, or at least hopeful ending. I try to have a positive spin to try to give people hope, that things can be okay that life can improve. But right now I just want to let myself feel what I feel, I want to let myself feel sad and hopeless without the pressure of needing to bring it back around to a hopeful ending. I want to let out everything everything on my mind so that I can finally release, and then maybe later I can think about better and more hopeful possibilities. But right now, I don’t feel like a happy ending.   
> The thoughts in this fic aren’t right though, suicide isn’t the only way. Happy and better endings are possible even if it doesn’t feel like it. Please try to reach out to someone for help if you’re having unhealthy thoughts.


End file.
